


If I'm not beyond repair

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky understands the rules when it comes to spy games and secret missions, but he feels like he was in stasis the day they gave out the decoder ring for relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I'm not beyond repair

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Snacky for looking it over.

Lord, send me a mechanic, if I'm not beyond repair, "Psalms 40:2" by the Mountain Goats

*

"I can't believe she shot me," Bucky says for the third time, shaking his head in disbelief at Steve, who's watching over him with fond amusement. He glares at Natasha, who's leaning against the cabinet with her arms crossed over her chest, her face the kind of blank that means she's getting annoyed. "I can't believe you shot me."

"I'm sure it was an accident," Steve says, with a glance at Natasha. 

"As if." She huffs in disgust. "Stop being such a baby. You're not even hurt."

"I'm a little hurt." Bucky looks at the quarter-shaped bruise blackening on his right shoulder and then back at Natasha, sly pout on his face. "You could kiss it better."

She huffs again and throws up her hands. "We'll debrief when you're being less ridiculous."

"You'll be waiting a long time then," Steve calls after her as she leaves.

Bucky shoots a glare at him and mutters, "Traitor."

"Well, now I won't kiss it better, either," Steve answers. 

Bucky grunts and pretends that wouldn't have suited him just as well. "I _know_ why she shot me," he says, poking metal fingers into the sore spot--even as a kid he'd always poked his bruises and picked his scabs, "but I still can't believe she actually did it."

Steve says, "It's Natasha," and Bucky guesses that's enough of an explanation. Steve shakes his head. "I think it means she likes you." He sounds wistful.

Bucky looks up from his wound then, blinking in surprise. "Okay," he says slowly, "now I know why you don't date much." Steve reaches out and thwaps the back of his head. "Hey," Bucky says, "don't beat on the injured guy."

Steve laughs and follows after Natasha.

*

The first time Bucky sees a SHIELD therapist, she hands him a pad of purple sticky notes and asks him to list things he finds strange or different from what he remembers. He hands her a little sticky note that says "everything" and doesn't go back until Fury tells him he'll never see anything but the four metal walls of his cell on the Helicarrier unless he can pass a psych eval.

His memories came back in a flood after Steve used the tesseract on him, the worst ones first, crowding out everything else. He spent a long while wracked with guilt and nightmares, unable to see anything but the past--the blood and death and terror he'd caused for decades.

No matter what Steve thinks, he knows the only reason he's here, the reason SHIELD didn't just put a bullet in the back of his head and bury his body someplace deep, is because he's useful. And the thing is, he _wants_ to be useful. Department X might have made him over into a remorseless killer, but it was the Army that made him a soldier, and there's not a whole lot to him beyond that; he's not like Steve, with his art and his heroism, or Natasha, and her sorrow for a dancing career that never existed. His skills are all he has and he likes the idea of using them to make the world a better place. He knows he can never atone for what he's done, but he also knows he has to try.

*

"It's not true that I don't date," Steve says a few nights later, over beers and burgers in a diner a few blocks north of the tower. "Things just didn't work out." He takes a long swallow of beer, throat moving hypnotically.

Bucky has a hard time believing that, because Steve is _Steve_ , and who wouldn't love him? But then again, he's also kind of hung up on his ninety-year-old ex and often distracted by having to save the world, so whatever didn't work out probably wasn't his fault. "I'm sorry."

Steve shrugs a shoulder. "What about you?"

Bucky snorts. "They're not exactly lining up to dance with the psycho assassin with the metal arm." The fact that Steve doesn't dispute it doesn't make him feel any better.

"What about Natasha?" Steve picks at his fries and glances out the window.

"I loved her," Bucky says after a while. "As much as I ever loved," he hesitates, tries to catch Steve's eye, but Steve's still watching the traffic on 57th Street, "anyone." He takes a sip of beer. "Maybe I still do." He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter, though. She's not the kind of woman who looks back."

Steve grunts and eats a couple more fries. "No, I can see why she wouldn't be."

It's not the wiseacre remark he was expecting, and it takes him a few minutes and a few more sips of beer to place why Steve's behavior is familiar. Then he says, "You always did like a dame who could beat you up." 

Steve jerks his head up, startled. "What? Bucky, no. I would never make eyes at your girl."

"She hasn't been a girl in years, Steve, let alone my girl." Bucky dips a fry in ketchup. "So what exactly are you asking me here? Because if you're interested in Natasha, she's the one you ought to be talking to."

Steve finally holds his gaze, and there's hope mixed in with the sadness in his eyes. "You're probably right."

"No probably about it."

"No, probably not."

*

Bucky thought he'd hate the telepath more than the therapist when SHIELD mandated regular appointments with both for him, but with the telepath it's all business. The guy pokes around in his head for a few minutes, makes sure no hidden triggers have popped up and no one else has been poking around in Bucky's head, and then it's over. It never takes more than twenty minutes, and if they exchange twenty words, it's a lot.

The therapist, on the other hand, she likes to talk, and even worse, she likes for him to talk. And he'll give her credit--talking about some of the worst stuff he remembers has helped a little with the nightmares, and some of the suggestions she's made for dealing with anxiety and insomnia actually work--but whenever she wants him to talk about his feelings, he freezes up. Sometimes he imagines being back in the stasis tank as they put him under and everything goes numb. It's so much easier not to feel anything.

He forces his left hand to unclench, turns it palm up on his thigh, and takes a deep breath when she asks how he's feeling today and refuses to be put off by a curt fine. He wants to tell her that the two people he loves most in the world are now two people who might love each other. He should be happy for them. He _is_ happy for them. (He's not happy.) He can't bring himself to actually say the words, though. He pastes a smile on his face and talks about how good it feels to work again, to be useful. At least that's the truth.

*

The art store is small and dusty, the shelves looming tall and cluttered. Bucky doesn't think he's claustrophobic, but Natasha touches Steve's arm and points out a display of recycled watercolor paper, her face lit with a real smile that lights Steve up in return, and suddenly Bucky can't breathe. He pushes his way back out into the cool afternoon. He fumbles in his pocket but the pack of cigarettes is empty.

"It's a disgusting habit," Natasha says. 

He doesn't jump, but he gives her a dark look. He's not used to people being able to sneak up on him. "Most of my habits are."

"Is that supposed to frighten me?"

He shrugs. "Does anything?"

She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. "You're an idiot."

He takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles, which smell faintly of soap and lotion. Lemon and ginger, he thinks. "Guilty as charged."

"What's that?" Steve asks, coming out of the store with a bag tucked under his arm. 

"I'm an idiot," Bucky says.

"He's an idiot," Natasha says at the same time.

"No argument there," Steve says. He slings his free arm over Bucky's shoulders and squeezes, the way Bucky used to do to him. "He's lucky he's got us around or he'd get into a lot of trouble."

"And what he gets into now?" Natasha asks, one eyebrow raised.

Steve grins. "Nothing we can't handle."

"What I'd like to get into is some food," he says, "if you two are done mocking me."

"Oh, we'll never be done with that, Buck, but I think we can manage to feed you at the same time. There's this great diner--"

"No," Natasha says. "No more diners. No more breakfast for dinner. Not today. I feel like I constantly smell like maple syrup when I'm out with you two."

Steve looks at Bucky and Bucky shrugs. "Lead the way, sweetheart."

The glare Natasha levels at him confirms that he'll be paying for that later, but for now, she leads them up Canal into Chinatown, and then down some stairs into a restaurant. The hostess and the wait staff are all thrilled to see her, and they're barely seated before food starts arriving, hot and savory, and it doesn't stop until he feels like he's eaten his weight in dumplings.

"That was amazing." Steve leans back and rests his arm along the back of the booth. The tip of Natasha's ponytail grazes his hand and he tangles his fingers in it, and Bucky suddenly feels like he's a third wheel on their date. 

"Yeah," Bucky says. "It was great. I should get going. I have a thing."

"You have a thing." Natasha sounds skeptical. She looks at Steve. "He has a thing."

Steve shrugs. "Far be it from me to get between a man and his thing." They exchange another look, fond and knowing this time, and it makes Bucky's chest hurt, and since he's sitting by himself on his side of the booth, he's definitely not claustrophobic.

"Appointment," he says, gesturing vaguely. "What do I owe you for lunch?"

"You can pay me later," Natasha says, her eyes narrowing, and Bucky knows she's not going to be as easy to fool as his therapist.

She tracks him down later, after his appointment with the heavy bag down in the gym. "You don't waste any time," he says when she folds her arms across her chest and glares at him. "My wallet's in my locker, but I'm good for it, I swear."

"Idiot," she says, and this time there's anger mixed into the affection. "Come on." 

"You're not going to kill me, are you? Because I really don't want to go out in these ratty old sweats. It's embarrassing."

"You're embarrassing."

He snorts. "Fair enough."

She takes him to the deck on the roof of the tower. The days are getting longer, twilight starting to stretch itself lazily over the city, but it's still chilly up this high. He tucks his right hand under his left arm, the metal still warm from his body, and tries not to shiver while he waits for Natasha to speak.

"He's really impressive, you know?" she finally says.

"Better than anyone." He won't--can't--brag about his own skills anymore, not after everything he's done, but Steve? He'll boast about Steve to anyone and everyone, the way he always has, and every word of it is true.

"When he found out you were still alive..." She huffs softly and shakes her head. "I've never seen anything like it. He was a force of nature."

Bucky allows himself a small smile. "Yeah, he can be--headstrong. Yeah." A whirlwind of questionable decisions, that's Steve all over when he gets an idea into his head.

"He would do anything for you." She touches his elbow--the one made of flesh and bone. The tips of her fingers are warm against his skin. "So would I." She heads inside then, though at the doorway she turns and says, "I know it's hard, but try not to be any more of an idiot, okay?"

"Yeah," he says again, though now he _feels_ like an idiot. "Okay."

*

The thing Bucky likes best about the telepath is that the guy just _knows_. There's no fumbling for explanations or trying to find words for things that there are no words for. He looks into Bucky's head and sees whatever it is he's thinking about (Steve, Natasha, sex, food, guns) and if it's in line with expectations, everything's good until the next week. There's no need to talk about it.

The problem with everybody else is that they talk in circles and they talk in code. They always have. He remembers his mother whispering with the neighbor ladies about poor cousin Myrtle "visiting Aunt Caroline in the country," which was code for "got herself knocked up and sent away." His dad was always "a little under the weather" on Saturday mornings, which meant he was hung over. 

It was the same in the Army, and then later when he was working for the Soviets. Even now, when everybody's supposedly not hung up on things like sex anymore, there are still coded conversations going on all the time, and Bucky's code book is seventy years out of date.

The only person he ever feels like he understands is Steve (he would never presume to think he understands Natasha, though he knows he's an open book to her), and now he's not even sure about that. And he wouldn't care so much, except that if he's getting it wrong this time, he could ruin everything.

He tells his therapist that he's having trouble dealing with mixed signals and people who say one thing but mean another. That he understands the rules when it comes to spy games and secret missions, but he feels like he was in stasis the day they gave out the decoder ring for relationships. She looks pleased and surprised that he's actually making an effort, and she gives him one of her rare pieces of useful advice. 

She's right, of course. If he doesn't ask he'll never know. 

Now it's just a matter of having the guts to do it. And the one thing he's never lacked is guts, so it shouldn't be this hard.

*

After a long flight back from Kyoto, Bucky falls asleep in front of the TV while the Mets lose to the Reds. He wakes, startled and disoriented, from a nightmare about an enemy of Karpov's who'd thought he could hide from the Winter Soldier in a convent. Needless to say, not even a full nun's habit had saved him. 

Bucky forces himself to slow his breathing and swipes a hand through his hair. The coffee at his elbow is cold and the eggs he'd made for dinner have congealed into a gross gelatinous mass, but it's only ten pm. The Mets have won on a walk-off home run and the noise is what woke him out of his nightmare about zombie nuns.

He throws himself off the couch and says, "Jarvis, is Steve in his quarters?"

"Yes, sir. Ms. Romanoff is with him." 

"Are they--interruptible?"

"I believe so. Captain Rogers has left instructions that you're always able to interrupt him if you need to."

"Huh. Thanks, Jarvis."

Bucky doesn't bother with shoes; the cool tile under his soles reminds him that he's awake and this is real.

The door to Steve's suite slides open when he gets to it, not giving him time to change his mind and do a ring and run (or whatever kids are calling it these days), and he can hear the Mets post-game show on in the living room. Natasha is lounging on the couch, bare feet curled up underneath her and glass of red wine in her hand, while Steve's putting dishes in the dishwasher.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Bucky says.

"No," Natasha says, putting her glass on the coffee table, turning off the television, and patting the seat on the couch next to her.

"We've been hoping you'd stop by once you got back," Steve says, sitting on his other side. 

Steve rests his arm along the back of the couch, but instead of tangling his fingers in Natasha's curls, he runs them through the short hair on the nape of Bucky's neck. Bucky shivers and Natasha presses closer.

"Are you cold, James?"

Her breasts are pressed up against his arm, and he wishes he were able to feel more than the light, soft pressure of them against the metal. He shakes his head, and his voice his hoarse when he answers, "No." Her mouth falls into a pout so he tries again. "Maybe?"

"You should let us help you," Steve says, nuzzling his temple, his breath warm on Bucky's skin, and Bucky would laugh at the fact that even Steve's come-ons sound like Captain America, except for how it's working. His whole body is strung taut as one of Natasha's wire garrottes, and desire is choking him.

"Okay," he says. He has to clear his throat, because Natasha has started pressing kisses to his neck. "I'd like that."

"We hoped you would," Steve says, and then his mouth captures Bucky's in a slow, thorough kiss that tastes like heat and wine and feels like riding the Cyclone on a perfect summer day and is better than Bucky ever imagined, and he's imagined a lot.

Natasha makes a low purring noise of approval as they break apart, and then she's kissing him. This is more familiar, the sharp nip of her teeth in his lower lip and then the thrust of her tongue against his. She tastes of the same wine as Steve and Bucky thinks it might be his new favorite flavor. She climbs into his lap so she can lean in and kiss Steve when she's done with him. For a moment, Bucky's torn between watching and participating, but he doesn't know how many times he's going to get this opportunity so he decides to take advantage. He nips gently at her jaw and she rolls her hips, so he does it again.

They manage to stumble into the bedroom after Steve rolls off the couch, and Steve's king-size bed is a much better fit.

After that, Bucky loses track of who's doing what to whom. He lets himself sink into the tangle of tongues and limbs and touches, Natasha's mouth on his dick as Steve fucks her, his mouth on Natasha's cunt while Steve fucks him, her hands tight in his hair as she comes again and again against his mouth, the salty, earthy taste of her mingling with the bittersweet taste of Steve's spunk.

Bucky feels wrung out and boneless when they're done, and Steve murmurs, "Get some rest, Bucky. We've got plenty of time. We don't have to do everything tonight."

He curls up with his head on Steve's shoulder and Natasha sprawled across both of them. He wakes with his hand curved around Natasha's hip and Steve watching them both with a goofy smile on his face and his sketchpad in his lap.

Natasha brushes his hair off his forehead and lets him pillow his head on her chest. 

"Are we good?" he asks, deciding that's about as close as he can come to asking outright. "Is this a thing? Are we having a thing?"

"I'm happy to be your thing," Steve says, leaning in to kiss them both, leaving charcoal smudges on their skin and on the sheets. "I always have been."

"We'll have to work on your terminology," Natasha says, tangling her legs with his, "but yes."

Bucky looks up at Steve and grins. "I think she likes us."

"She shot you, didn't she?" Steve answers. "I told you so."

end


End file.
